


We are Children of Summer

by SolarisSun



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Desert, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Retirement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6393280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarisSun/pseuds/SolarisSun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Snake Eater, Big Boss takes a retirement of sorts to process the death of his teacher and what it means to be a soldier. He takes to the city of Kandahar, acting as a hunting and field survival instructor - which is dismal at best. However, things begin to change when a quirky botanist begins taking his classes.</p>
<p>Originally posted on FF.net but I really like AO3 so I wanted to post it on here as well!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Since the original Metal Gear Solid series relies heavily on historical events, I have also tried my best as an author to research as much as I can about the political situation of Afghanistan in the early and late 1970's in order to be as authentic as possible. When writing stories proper research is imperative, especially when writing about cultures that are not one's own.
> 
> Also all characters with the exception of my original character Dr. Zahira Kartal belong to Hideo Kojima and this is strictly fan work not for sale or publishing. Some of the game's original timeline has been altered for the purpose of the story, extending the years of Big Boss's "retirement" from combat after defeating The Boss.

CHAPTER ONE

The heat was suffocating, raking in at a feverish 104 degrees Fahrenheit, a record high for the month of July. The stone buildings of the marketplace shone brightly in the merciless Afghan sun as the locals bustled from stall to stall going about their daily business. It was a wonder how people survived in such a harsh climate, a testament to human resilience. There was a beauty to how no matter how uninhabitable a place may seem, life managed to find a way to flourish.

After all the chaos he had been through, it was almost ironic how he had chosen to come to Kandahar of all places. There were whispers of a revolution, of potential Soviet aggression. No matter how hard he tried, at the end of the day he always found a war to take part in somehow. It must have come with the job description. He didn't become soldier by being a pacifist after all. Turmoil was a comfort, he thrived in it, built a career on it – would he even know how to function without some looming threat in the distance keeping him on guard?

Besides, keeping up with the local news kept his mind off of his last mission. That was something he wished he could forget more than anything. It didn't matter that he was awarded some stupid honor. A cold piece of metal, screaming at him for murdering the woman he owed everything. Without her mentorship, he probably would have died years ago, or be some grunt sent to the frontlines in the next war. In the end, he had taken her life based upon a lie. Becoming a soldier meant that you were disposable, everyone who joined up knew this – but that mission had become a real wake up call.

There used to be some sense of pride to rising through the ranks to protect your country. Before secret talks between nations and cover stories. Before the bombs dropped war seemed simpler, patriotism had a sense of meaning. Things were more transparent and governments weren't entirely out for themselves. He envied the men of that simpler time.

Stretching his arms above his head, he let out a small sigh. At least here he went by "Ishmael". The pressure of becoming "Big Boss" was far away since retiring. Well, as far away as he could make it – there were always a few who recognized him. Now he was trying his hand at being a field guide and hunting instructor. A venture which unfortunately was proving dismal. Whenever the teacher evaluation forms came back he was always criticized for being too harsh on his students. Go figure, what did they expect taking lessons from someone who was ex – military. He wasn't here for a fluffy cake walk. However, his employer Mr. Naraan felt differently. If he fucked up again, his job would be on the line. That was a feeling that he hadn't felt in years. The "world's greatest soldier" couldn't hold a simple job down.

It was pathetic, and he couldn't help laughing in spite of himself.

Nevertheless, he wasn't going to let the morning get off to a bad start. He was going to enjoy his morning cigar. Maybe today he wouldn't scare everyone off.


	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

The road from his tiny second floor apartment was an unpaved, rocky dirt road. Further in the city, the roads were nicer, and maintained, but on the outskirts in some backwater neighborhood, this was hardly the case. He could have gotten something nicer. Hell, he could have stayed in a hotel if he really wanted to, but there was something wonderful about being away from it all.

His boots became dusty as he walked, and he wondered how some of the locals could get by with open toed shoes. Personally, it would drive him insane if day in and day out his feet would get caked in dirt. When he was off duty, back at home base, he surprised people with how fastidious he was with cleaning and hygiene. Just because he was good at surviving with nothing but a crappy hunting knife and the clothes on his back, did not mean he enjoyed those situations. If he didn't have access to showers on a mission, well it was tough luck and he dealt with it.

"Hey watch out!" Some one screamed loudly from behind in Pashto.

Looking over his shoulder, the scene unfolded before him: A runaway merchant's cart with a broken wheel came hurtling toward him. At this rate, it was going to crush him and the unlucky souls who happened to be in the morning crowd to get to work.

"Shit," Snake grunted under his breath.

Frantically, he began pushing his way through the crowd. Everyone was scrambling to get to the sides of the road, parting like the Dead Sea. He kept looking back to make sure that the cart didn't hit a rock causing it to veer off. Wouldn't it be hilarious though? "Naked Snake, cause of death: pummelled by a runaway cart". The boys back at home would have a field day with that one.

Thankfully, he made it through the chaos. Now he watched from a distance as the cart slammed into the wall of an unsuspecting building. Its contents flew into the street. A few child looters came and quickly stole what they could before the owner finally caught up to his cart and began chasing them away, fist raised in the air. It seemed like no one was hurt during all the excitement. That was a relief.

The crowd merged again, and the busyness that came with mornings resumed as if nothing had happened. No one stopped to help the man with his cart.

Passing by, Snake and the man's eye locked. He looked at Snake with pleading eyes. But, he had somewhere to be as well – he couldn't stop to help, and he felt guilty, but he kept walking. Every man for himself.

By the time he made it work, he was two minutes late. Nothing bad by Mr. Naraan's standards if he was in a good mood... but lately he hadn't been in a good mood. Mr. Naraan ran his business from within a rickety outpost with a large sign displaying in both English and Pashto, "Desert Tours! Field Survival Lessons and Hunting Guides!" The rates were displayed on a little wooden standee outside of the booking window. It mostly catered to tourists looking for an "edgy" getaway. Something to brag about to their parents at home. He saw a mix of Europeans, Americans, Turks, Lebanese, among others.

Running in through the back door, he quickly punched in his time card and threw on his uniform shirt, a khaki green short sleeved dress shirt, and vest. Luckily, it seemed he hadn't be noticed.

"You're late Mr. America," a voice called out.

Turning quickly, he immediately cursed himself for thinking he was off the hook.

"Sorry sir, there was an accident on the way to work this morning. Not much I can do about that," He replied to his annoyed boss sheepishly.

"Okay, Mr. America, sure," Mr. Naraan waved dismissively, "but you have your hands full today. We have a group of ten today. Do you think you can handle that without scaring all of my clients off?"

Snake bit his lip and nodded, "Yeah, I can handle it."

Before leaving, Mr. Naraan rolled his eyes and answered, "I sure hope so, or we're going to be having a serious discussion about your employment here."

"Looking forward to it," Snake swore to himself.

A class of ten was pretty big. Especially when it was probably going to be filled with nothing but people who were green. Today, he was going to have to keep his mouth shut, "be more encouraging", not scream at people when they screwed up taking the safety of their gun off, or swung their gun around without thinking.

He sighed deeply. This was going to be a day and a half.

Stepping outside, he forced down the urge to take a smoke, as much as he could use one. Instead, he took a gander at his new "recruits".

They were a ragtag group. So they probably all signed up without knowing each other. It happened occasionally, but it was more common for a full tour group to sign up all at once. As far as he could see, there were even split between men and women. One of the girls had purple hair, which made him grimace. He couldn't stand girls who dyed their hair. Sure he was old school, he grew up in the forties and fifties. Scanning the faces in the group put him at ease though, most of them looked to be European or along those lines so he wouldn't have to trudge through with his broken Pashto. He wished Mr. Naraan wouldn't be such a cheapskate and hire another instructor for those who didn't speak any English, but it wasn't his place to complain. The job did pay his rent.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

"Alright, listen up! I'm sure the brochure advertized this as some cute tourist attraction, but I'm here to actually teach you something. So listen up, and listen good," Snake barked at his pupils, opening his class.

He could see some slight looks of discomfort on some of their faces and sighed inwardly, he definitely was not a people person.

"To start things off I'm going to set up some ground rules. See in the military, rules are called orders, and you have to follow them or you'll probably die. Here... it's a little more lax, and you'll just get yelled at by me," he continued, trying to add some humour into his little spiel.

However, the crowd looked bored and unamused, staring off into the space or fidgeting. Nervously, he scanned their faces, trying to find someone who was interested, and at least focus on teaching to them.

"Rule number one: if we're working with guns – always have it pointed towards the ground – especially in your safety is off. I don't want anyone getting shot in the foot.

Rule number two: knives stay in their sheath unless we're working with them. If you drop your knife, call out and let the people around you know," Snake closed his eyes in exasperation. "And for the love of Christ, do not throw your knives. You are not a ninja. Your aim will suck. Someone will get hurt. I won't get sued, but you will."

This one did illicit some laughs which made him smile in relief. He still had some charm, after all.

And it was true... he would never forget that one stupid sixteen year old boy who thought he was "King Shit". He was trying to hit a target meant for shooting practice and clipped a poor lady in the arm. That was not a good field day. The amount of paperwork he had to do was disgusting.

"Alright, rule number three: If we get to go out into the field, for those of you who decide to come for the whole week, we're not going to have access to a lot of the comforts of home. If you have a special diet – like you're vegetarian... I got some bad news for you because we're in a desert. Pack something for yourself or you're going to be eating whatever we find out there... so I hope you all like snakes," Snake concluded with a chuckle as he watched his students' faces contort with disgust at thought of eating snakes. He probably was going to get five students who stayed the whole week if he was lucky.

"Finally, my name is Ishmael, so if you need help don't hesitate to call me over. If you have any more questions, now's your time to ask them."

He waited patiently and counted to seven, reading in some book on facilitation that counting to seven allowed people adequate time for their slow brains to think of something. That book was as dry as they come, but he hoped it would improve his dismal people skills at work.

Finally, by the time he had counted to five, someone sheepishly raised their hand – a young boy with brown hair and dark eyes, he looked Slavic and he guessed that maybe he came from Romania or the south of Russia, "Is that eye-patch real? Or you just wearing that to scare us and be tough?"

Oh boy. He always got someone asking about his damn eye. Gritting his teeth and forcing himself not to shoot back "Yeah it is, wanna lose yours too?" or something along those lines was a challenge. He fucking hated shit eating entitled kids.

He forced a smile on his face and replied in the cheeriest voice he could manage, "How about a bonus rule – the eye and the eye patch are off limits. Otherwise I'll make you lose your lunch and actually show it to you."

Passive aggression, he could get away with that couldn't he?

"Anyway, anyone else have any questions?" He asked to the crowd. He wanted to keep things rolling.

The purple haired girl raised her hand, "Are we going to have lunch breaks or smoke breaks?"

Good. A normal question.

"Yes, we'll take five after we go over some safety procedures and take lunch around noon. Just smoke away from the rest and find an ashtray to put out your smoke," He answered.

"Okay, looks like we're done here, so let's get down to business."

He instructed them to follow him further into the camp so he could give a quick orientation. The site was small so it never took long, but it was his least favourite part of his job. It was tedious and repetitive. On top of that, people didn't pay attention anyway and he would still have to point someone in the general direction of the restroom. People were exhausting.

Glancing down at his watch his sighed – another seven hours and forty minutes to go.

At least from here, he'd start playing towards his strengths. Basic survival skills weren't hard to teach and they were second nature to him. He was just dreading the hunting portion. That's where things usually went wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

The first exercise he would begin with was how to start a fire. It was the most basic and probably the most essential part to survival aside from finding water. With a fire you could cook your meals and stay warm – even in the desert, the nights were freezing because there was nothing to retain the heat. Since the desert was so barren, it was essential to be creative with kindling as well. He also liked this exercise because he could split people up into pairs so if one was struggling, they could help each other, and it was one less person to bark at. Plus, in the short time he had been doing this, he noticed that they got the most satisfaction out of it. And who wouldn't? They created fire!

Leading the group over to a long thin table with various supplies and equipment for starting a fire he split them up into two groups of five. Ten, although it would become a handful in the later activities, was a blessing because it saved him from the awkward groups of three or having to stand in as someone's partner. He didn't have the patience for it, and half the time he would end up doing it himself, and some activities just didn't work with an odd number.

After he explained the different methods that they could use to start a fire he numbered them off based on what they would be using to create their fire, they would have ten minutes to do so and then switch to the next method. Number one was the wooden stick method, number two was the magnifying glass/ eye glass lens method, number three the coke can and chocolate bar method and number four the steel flint method. Since the wooden fire started method was so difficult, and his least favourite of the bunch he would give two stations to that since it definitely required the most practice to get down correctly. Honestly, when it came down to it, starting a fire that way was mostly luck.

It would take exactly fifty minutes for the them to go through each station if they kept to schedule, which meant ten minutes to talk to them about what they learned and what they could have done better which would take them nicely to an hour and then to lunch. Then he could treat himself to another cigar, eat something light and continue the day.

Standing back from the crowd so he could get a good view of what each group was doing he sounded them off and began watching the minutes fly by.

Purple Hair Girl was trying to organize the people in her group by task – one person to set up the kindling, another to blow air to get oxygen to the spark when they got one. The others in her group were to take turns watching for a spark and spinning the sticks together in order to get one. All in all, the process was inefficient in his eyes. It was a clinical way of working, and she just kept talking and trying to delegate "resources". The only way they were actually going to accomplish anything was just by doing it.

With a quick glance down at his watch to see how much time was left, he went to go check on the other group. They were assigned the coke can and chocolate bar method. From the looks of it, they had managed to polish the bottom of the can fairly well, making it into a pretty good lens, but were having trouble finding the correct angle to set off a spark.

Since they almost had the method down, he decided that today he would cut these kids some slack and help them out a little. Besides, it would help him get out of the doghouse with Mr. Naraan. He was being "supportive". Really, the best way for them to learn was through trial and error. That's how The Boss taught him. She showed him once and then it was up to him to repeat it until he finally figured it out for himself. It was the only way to know if you really understood it.

Walking up to the Slavic boy who questioned him about his eye earlier, Snake patted him on the shoulder and asked, "Need a hand with that?"

The boy shook his head and shrugged him off and continued facing the bottom of the can at the sun. "Listen, you almost have the angle right – like seventy percent there. Try crouching down a bit and pointing it lower. Standing all the way up here you're never going to get it," Snake continued.

Reluctantly, the boy followed his instructions, only to watch in wonder as the faintest spark began to appear. Quickly the other members of his group began hooting in excitement and trying to fan air into the fire to get it going. No matter how draining dealing with rookies was, it was always a fair sight to see someone make their first fire.

He looked at the other group and saw that they weren't even close. Purple Hair Girl was furiously trying to get something going as she barked at her teammates. But, they were out of time and would have to try that one again the next time they came around to it.

"Alright, switch!"

There were sighs of disappointment and relief coming from the two different groups as they changed stations as Snake reset the timer once again. Only few more rounds of this and he could eat something, and he was craving a smoke. If there was one menial thing that he missed about being in FOX was that he could at least smoke whenever he wanted, or his job was mentally stimulating enough to keep him occupied.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

At long last it was lunch – a godsend for his grumbling stomach. His students seemed to be exhausted from the trial and error of each different method of trying to start a fire, and if he could get away with it he would try and end the day early. Even though his boss might not appreciate it, he figured the kids would.

"Okay! Time for lunch, so you can grab your grub. We have an hour, so if you need to go to the market there's time. Just don't be late," He instructed to the group.

"And what if we're late?" Purple Hair Girl, asked coyly as the others were about to leave.

Rolling his eyes, he replied with a smirk, "You should know, one thousand push ups. This is bootcamp – don't waste my time."

"Right, sorry sir. I'll keep it in mind when I'm out and about," She laughed, the corners of her eyes crinkling up.

Turning around to get his own lunch back in the staff room, he shook his head and chuckled to himself. Students were characters, alright.

Once in the staff room, he breathed a sigh of relief, and took a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet. There was no one crowding, or asking questions. It was beautiful. He quickly rummaged through the dilapidated communal fridge in the corner, for the falafel pita sandwich he made for himself three days ago, but never had quite gotten around to eating. There weren't enough students to warrant a full day's class the past few days, and he had been sent home early. Not that he entirely minded, but without fail he had forgotten his food.

However, it seemed everything but his pita was in the fridge.

Biting the inside of his lip to suppress a curse, he slammed the door shut.

There was only one other person to work here, and that was his boss, Mr. Naraan.

Well there went a relaxing lunch in peace.

Storming out of the staff room, he marched to the corner of camp. He was too angry to deal with the bustling noise of the market. At least he could have his smoke. His unfinished Cuban from this morning was waiting for him in his pants' pocket.

Leaning up against the wooden fence, that marked the end of the grounds, he plopped his cigar in his mouth and began fishing for his lighter. When he dug into his right back pocket where he usually kept it, he found it was missing. Clenching his cigar tighter, he frantically felt through his other pockets, also coming up with nothing.

His jaw dropped in exasperation, almost causing him to lose his cigar to the dusty ground.

He knew what had happened, during the cart incident prior, it must have fell out as he avoided getting turned into a pancake.

"Need a light?" A voice called from behind.

Caught off guard, Snake spun around to see who was addressing him, and lo and behold it was Purple Hair.

"Yeah, actually I do," He answered, "how did you know?"

Smiling, she passed her lighter to him, a red Bic, "Well, I know the 'can't find my lighter' dance pretty well."

He took her lighter gratefully, closing his eyes and inhaling just enough to taste the rich flavour of the tobacco before exhaling. The warm tingling in his mouth calmed him down slightly, and he already felt less on edge.

"Fair enough," He laughed.

He watched her pull out a cigarette and grimaced. He had tried to smoke them because they were cheaper, but they tasted awful. He didn't care if they were the economic choice – they were crap.

"How do you afford that habit?" She asked after taking a long drag.

"Good pension from doing my time for the U.S. of A,"

She looked at him incredulously, "Hilarious."

"Yup," He answered with a wry smile.

He looked out at the horizon and took in the view of the mountains, which were more like rolling hills. How long was he going to stay here, out in the middle of nowhere?

"So, um," He fumbled for his student's name.

"Zahira," She interjected pleasantly.

"Okay, Zahira," He mumbled before continuing, "what made you decide to take my class?"

Giving her arms a good stretch, she answered, "Well, I have some research that needs to get out in the Registan Desert, and I'd like to know how to sort of fend for myself if I need to."

"So you're a scientist or something?"

"Botanist," She replied promptly.

"What good is a botanist in one of the most uninhabitable deserts?"

Sighing, as if she has had to explain herself many times, she explained, "Well, what if we want colonize the Moon? Or go to Mars? Those places are uninhabitable, but if we want to keep studying them then we need some way to have sustainable resources up there – well at least if we want anything long term."

Snake shook his head, "Well, if it means anything. You at least trying to learn how to fend for yourself makes you a better scientist than the rest in my books."

He bitterly remembered Sokolov and the mess he had to go through with trying to rescue that stupid man. For someone who could build the next nuclear war machine, you would think he would have some more common sense in his head, or some basic guile. But no – he was a "smart" idiot.

"What do you mean by that?" Zahira laughed.

"Let's just say that if I had a thousand dollars for every time a scientist screwed me over back in the army, I'd have enough money to buy the world, sell it, and buy it again."


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Mission accomplished.

He managed to push the kids hard enough that they could all leave a half hour early, at two thirty in the afternoon. They were beat, he was beat, it was time to call it a day.

Mr. Naraan came bustling out of his tiny office at the sight of the students gathering their belongings. Even with his one eye, Snake could see the short and wiry man running at him from a mile away. He couldn't help but smirk. He normally wasn't one to toy with his superiors, but the jerk ate his lunch, and honestly, he thought that he did a pretty good job today with the kids. They learned how to make a fire, and the basics of shelter and they were tired enough that they weren't talking – a job well done in his books. Plus, ending early when they were tired probably put him in their good books, right?

For now, he was going to pretend he didn't see his lousy boss about to give him hell, and decided to congratulate his class on a great first day with all the warmth and kindness he could possibly muster. With this class, he was determined to show that he could in fact be a good, likeable teacher, just out of spite.

"Ishmael, can I talk to you?"

There it was, the grating, nasally voice.

Turning around, Snake answered curtly, "Yup?"

He had to stop himself from breaking out into a shit-eating grin looking at his boss' disgruntled face. His eyebrows were narrowed and he seemed that he was going to break into a sweat at any moment.

"Why are our clients leaving early? What did you do? We're losing rates here, I hope you know that," Mr. Naraan scolded.

"Well, kids did a good job today, I figured that I'd let them go early because they were tired and have an early start tomorrow – so technically rates would still be the same wouldn't it?" He shrugged.

His boss gave a huff before continuing his lecture, "Listen, you're the worst instructor I've had. You're too hard, you take it too seriously. How many times do I have to tell you this is a fun camp,"

"Alright well, I have a feeling that you and I are never going to agree on this, but I'd actually like to give people some skills so if they do find themselves in a proverbial pickle, they can actually get themselves out of it. I mean, this isn't Disneyland in case you haven't noticed... and I might suck at everything else, but you have to admit that the people who do stick it through have always written back that the information was good,"

Snake was entering into some dangerous territory with his boss, but he was so done with the crap of being" the worst instructor ever". And besides the point, he never saw the guy interviewing or actively trying to replace him.

"Ishmael, you better watch how you speak to me in the future. Or I won't wait until the outcome of this group to find someone else," Mr. Naraan threatened before skulking away back to the confines of his office.

Whatever, he just wanted to go home and eat something. His stomach was beginning to gnaw at itself from going a whole day without eating. Letting out a sigh, he started to head back to the staff room to collect his things and change out of his work shirt. He was getting soft from his time away from duty.

A light tap on his shoulder smashed his train of thought. He lifted his head up an looked over his shoulder to see who it was. He was surprised to see it was Purple Hair – no, Zahira.

"Hey, it looked like you were getting chewed out for a second, everything alright?" She asked. He could see the concern in her eyes, catching him off guard.

"It was nothing, really," He answered gruffly, "don't worry about it."

He could tell she didn't look convinced. He wasn't sure how to respond to her worry, but he guessed that he appreciated it.

"Are you sure?" She said, continuing to push the subject.

"Yeah, we don't agree on some things, that's about it," He replied in the same tone as before, "like I said, don't worry about it."

He marched off without so much as saying goodbye. It was weird, she was the first student to try and talk to him outside of asking a question on survival techniques. He stopped for a moment and called back to her, "Just go home and rest up. Big day tomorrow!"

Eh, what the hell.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

He rushed up the hill to his home, eager to get dinner started and to take a long hot shower. The way was devoid of any sign of the commotion this morning, and the thought of the old man's misfortune played at the back of his mind. He hoped someone came to help the poor man out, and the wave of guilt he felt from this morning came back to him. "You can't save everyone," He thought to himself in an attempt to force it out of his mind.

Being naive on that last mission and thinking he could find a way around murdering his teacher taught him that. "Loyalty to yourself or the mission", that's what she always preached at him, "one day you're going to have to choose". However, granted his position, he really didn't think he had much of an option. If he didn't do what he did, it would mean an all out nuclear war for breaching Soviet territory. All thanks to Sokolov for being a useless twit and, later as he found out, Volgin sabotaging The Boss' undercover mission by firing one of the Davy Crockett shells she had brought to gain the maniac's trust.

He needed to stop dwelling on it, or it was going to eat him alive. But it was easier said than done when the simplest things reminded him of it.

Climbing up the steps to his front door, he fished out his keys and unlocked his door, entering into his sparsely furnished apartment. There was a small burgundy couch in the center of the living room, with a plain wooden coffee table in front of it. A few books were piled off to the corner of the table, mostly history and philosophy – some in English, some in Russian, some in French. He didn't own a TV, but rather a small black radio which he occasionally dialed to the news and tried to pick apart the Pashto. He didn't know how long he was going to stay here, but he was going to at least try to learn the language as best as he could. Even if he never went back on duty, the more languages he knew the greater advantage he had.

He walked over to the kitchen and began rummaging through the cupboards, unsure of what to make. He was hungry, but felt too uninspired to cook anything that required a lot of prep. Finally, he found some pasta noodles he could make. Pulling out an old, beaten up pot that he had been ripped off for at the market, he filled it with water and placed it on his tiny white stove. In the meantime, he grabbed some sauce he had made from the freezer and began warming it up on the other element. While he was waiting for the pot to boil, he kicked off his boots and took off his eye-patch. The wound still itched and was sore from time to time. The humidity made it worse because it caused him to sweat underneath, but that was his choice – he was the one who refused the prosthetic.

Twenty minutes time, dinner was ready, and he plopped himself down on the couch. Normally, he was a stickler for eating at his small, round dining table, but he was too tired and his back was acting up. He needed to do some stretches. Once again, standing around all day and coaching people was making him soft.

He took small bites of his food, savouring the fact that no matter how simple it was, it wasn't a milk snake or a rat or any of the other fun things he had to eat while on the job. He chuckled as he remembered picking on Para-Medic giving him advice over his radio on the different things he caught or collected. His favourite moment was when he asked her if eating those glowing Russian mushrooms would recharge his batteries, and she was just dumbfounded. His least favourite experience was eating one of those white-rumped vultures, and then having her tell him they fed on human corpses. He definitely threw up and then some after that. He still got queasy thinking about it.

After finishing his meal, he put his dishes in the sink and headed for the shower. Stripping down in front of the mirror he examined himself. He really didn't look his age anymore. He was going to be thirty-one, and he looked like an old man.

His eyes forever had dark circles around them, making them appear more sunken in than they were, and worry lines etched his forehead. He didn't smile as much as he used to, and it showed on his face. He looked... tired. He still struggled with his missing right eye. During the rest of the mission it didn't faze him, he had a job to get done. But now, it did get to him from time to time. It could have been worse, in that torture room he could have been electrocuted to death, lost both of his eyes or died – he got off lucky. But, it was still a bitch looking at that dead, pale eye and the scars around it.

The rest of him, well that was obviously riddled with scars. Along with the bullet marks that riddled his body, he had a great long and jagged scar from when The Boss' broke his arm, and he had to splint it himself while he waited for Para-Medic and Major Zero to come and rescue him. He didn't hold it against her, she was just doing her job.

He sighed and turned on the tap, and let the water heat up. Enough reminders, he just needed to forget for a while. If he started dwelling now, he was going to find himself in a rut unable to do anything for the rest of the day, and he didn't want that. After all, he was going to have to get up at the crack of dawn to teach those kids again the next morning.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Snake woke up with a start, his lids hammering open, his forehead wet with sweat and breathing heavily. His muscles locked in place and despite his best efforts to move he couldn't. He was frozen. The same god damn dream again. Each time he had it, it grew worse. There was always more detail, the pain was always more vivid.

After some time, he was able to sit up, the covers of his bed in disarray from all the tossing and turning during the night. He held his head in his hands, running his fingers through his dark brown hair, trying to catch his breath and calm down.

"It's alright, it's alright," He whispered to himself.

Finally after a few minutes, he was able to compose himself to get up and go to the bathroom. He opened the mirror cabinet, and searched through his many pill bottles. He whizzed past the pain killers, Advil, Tylenol and Aspirin and landed to the tranquilizers he was prescribed upon returning home, Diazepam. He took two, placing them under his tongue and waited for them to dissolve.

He hated relying on them, he hated it, but he knew without them he wasn't going to make it to work on time. He was already behind schedule – again.

He quickly brushed his teeth and slicked his hair back. Unfortunately, he was going to have to skip the shower and the cigar this morning. Haphazardly, he threw on some clothes, put on his eye patch and ran out the door.

By some stroke of luck, he managed to arrive on time. His students were lounging around the camp base waiting for the lesson to start. Looking at them, he hoped his meds started kicking in soon otherwise he was going to be really jittery – and that wasn't the best combination for work with tactical knives. He needed to be on his game today, especially since he wanted to make sure everyone was safe during the exercises.

He walked to the center of camp and called out to his group, "We're going to start in five minutes so wrap up what you're talking about and come here,"

He noticed Zahira who had been talking to one of the other students, quickly wrapped up her conversation and headed in his direction.

"Morning Ishmael!" She said with a grin.

"Uh, morning," He replied awkwardly.

He wasn't used to this. It was weird. Being on edge from this morning and waiting to be brought down wasn't helping his social ineptness.

"So what are we up to today?" She asked, making small talk.

"Er... I was going to go over some stuff with hunting knives. Get some experience skinning things, and how to clean your own food I guess," He trailed off.

Her mouth contorted in disgust, "Please tell me we're not using real animals or I'm gonna be sick"

"Oh God no," Snake laughed, "I've done it for years, and I know how to make sure there isn't too much suffering involved, you rookies – that would be animal cruelty. We have dummies, don't worry."

Zahira sighed in relief, closing her eyes, "Oh thank God, I was worried,"

Talking to her was helping ground him surprisingly enough, it forced him to be present in his surroundings, and she had an easy air about her.

"Um, Ishmael, one question though," She asked, her eyes flitting about nervously.

Snake raised his eyebrow in confusion, "Yeah?" He replied dryly.

"What did you mean when you said you've "done it for years"?"

He shook his head and smirked, "Remember when I told you about the whole US of A, army stuff,"

"Oh ," She paused and put her hand to her face in embarrassment, "right, I guess you would really be roughing it then,"

"You got it,"

There was some silence between them, and Snake shifted his feet. He didn't know how to continue on the conversation. He didn't know if he should ask her anything, her English was really good so he could ask her where she was from – but that could be rude.

"Sorry, I'm a vegetarian, that's why I asked," She said, finally breaking the silence.

"Oh, yeah, no worries, just make sure to pack something while we're on the out trip – if you come,"

Zahira broke into a huge grin, her white teeth contrasting with the red of her lipstick, "You know I'll be there. No quitters here,"

Her words took him off guard and he immediately looked down at his watch, searching for the time so it could rescue him.

"Well, it's time to start class," He said awkwardly.

"Alright, I'll go get the others and bring them over. I'll talk to you more at lunch?"

Her forwardness put him at a loss. She actually wanted to talk to him?

"Uh, sure I guess," He answered lamely.

As she walked off, he shook his head. She was crazy. Purple hair, her attitude, she was off her rocker. And now he was stuck talking to her at lunch. Now he needed to think about what he was going to talk about. Maybe he would ask her where she was from after all.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Today's class was keeping Snake on edge as he waited for something to go horribly wrong. He had gone over all the safety measures several times and had his students repeat it back to him one by one before he even started sending them to their stations. It was up to them to be responsible at this point.

He felt like a mother bird kicking her babies out of the nest, hoping they would fly.

If he was in charge of the curriculum of the program, he never would allow tactical knives or guns to be used. Unfortunately, he didn't get to – all of this was Mr. Naraan's great idea, and to be frank – he didn't know how this place hadn't been shut down. If he ran the business, the only way he would even consider tactical knives or guns would be if the student had prior experience and could prove it. This wasn't a shooting range, and he always became antsy having to improvise a makeshift one. There were plenty of techniques to teach without them – but try telling that to Mr. Naraan.

Snake made his way around, glancing at what each student was doing, barking at the ones who were drawing the knife towards themselves instead of away. Many of today's tasks were based on the individual instead of group, so his hands were full keeping track of everyone's progress.

He saw a tentative hand go up at the station in the corner in his peripheral vision and rushed over. It was Zahira, and upon examining her work, saw she had hardly made a dent into the task.

"Um, sorry, I'm just having a really hard time cutting through this?" She said sheepishly, her cheeks red.

"How much pressure are you applying when you try making a cut?" Snake asked trying to pin point the source of her problems.

"Um, as much as I can – maybe the knife is dull? I just can't cut through it," She answered.

That wasn't right. He knew the knives were sharp enough because he personally went through and maintained each of them. It had to be her grip, or something of that nature. She wasn't a frail thing though, she should of had no problems completing the task.

"Can you show me what you're doing?"

Zahira bit the insides of her cheeks and nodded. When she attempted to make the cut into the dummy, he noticed her hands were trembling, and her grip was loose. He nailed the issue on the head.

"Your hands are shaking, that's why you can't make a cut," Snake responded dryly.

She placed the knife down on the table and looked down at her feet, her long curly hair falling in front of her face.

"Ah, I'm sorry. I think I'm just having a hard time separating the fact that it's not a real animal because I'm just imagining getting lost in the middle of nowhere and having to do something like this,"

Hearing her say that made him smile a little. She was soft, and not that there was anything wrong with that; it was just different from what he was used to.

Scratching the back of his head, he sighed, "Hey, it's alright. It's for emergency situations right? What's the likely hood of you winding up in the middle of nowhere with no way back to civilization?"

"I guess, you're right – If I wasn't heading off to the middle of nowhere for research."

"Er, well, I haven't covered edible plants in the region – few and far between as they might be," He replied backpedalling on his earlier statement.

Zahira let out a small laugh, "That's true, and besides, if my ideas do work, I'll have all the food I want."

"That's the spirit," he answered with a grin.

Picking up the knife again, he could see she was trying to correct her grip, but her hands were still trembling, and she let out a huff of frustration.

Tentatively, Snake placed his hand on top of hers to help steady her shaking. She looked up at him; her green eyes wide with surprise, making him look away in embarrassment. This was so unlike him. He normally never reached out as much as he was doing. Why was he putting himself out there?

"Um, I was just trying to help steady your grip is all, and this way you can feel how much pressure you need to actually make a cut?" He said trying to relieve some of the tension off himself.

"Alright," She answered quietly.

Her hand was smooth against the rough calluses of his own. They worked together, and finally the first layer of the dummy came off.

"So, wasn't so bad right?" He asked, taking his hand off of hers.

"No, no it wasn't. Thank you," She replied, "I think I can handle myself now."

Snake nodded, and left her to her devices. He wanted her to do well. He wasn't the sentimental type at all, but she had this bubbly warmth that made him want to see her succeed. She was hopeful and determined – at least from what he could tell about her from his class.

He scanned the rest of his students to see if anyone else was struggling while he was helping Zahira, and happily found that everyone else seemed to be catching on quickly. Which was good since a glance at his watch told him lunch was almost here – the godsend of the day. Although, he was going to have to budget his time wisely, seeing how he needed to wander around the market today to grab a bite to eat.

Thinking of lunch reminded him of the morning, however, and he angrily remembered her had forgotten to pack a cigar for himself. As much as he hated them, he could probably bum a cigarette off Zahira, except that would probably look bad on him. There were some things you couldn't do on the job, and asking a student for a cigarette probably counted as one. If he wasn't on thin ice with Mr. Naraan, he'd consider it, but for today it was probably best he just went without.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

Snake hurriedly dismissed his class for lunch. He was jumping for the chance to leave the camp's grounds so he could get to and from the market as fast as he could. He hated the market. It was loud, unpredictable and because he was a foreigner who couldn't speak Pashto to save his life, he always got ripped off. It was why he would always pack a lunch, or have something waiting for him in the staff room fridge. His plan was to go to the nearest street food vendor, but whatever ever they were selling and rush back, hoping that the whole ordeal would take no more than twenty minutes at most.

He was just about off the premises when he heard a breathy, high-pitched voice call after him, making him stop in his tracks.

"Hey, Ishmael! Wait!" The voice called.

Turning around, he wasn't surprised to see it was Zahira. A bemused smirk crossed his lips. She was a little clingy, wasn't she - although, he kind of had agreed to talk with her at lunch.

"Phoo, you sure sneak around fast, I didn't even see you leave," she laughed after catching her breath once she caught up with him.

He almost wanted to respond to her remark that of course he sneaked around quickly, he only trained in special ops for the better part of his military career. He spent the last few years of his career doing solo infiltration missions.

Instead, he just chuckled and said, "Comes with practice, I guess."

Zahira rolled her eyes and shook her head, "Uh, huh. Whatever that's supposed to mean, teach'."

Snake continued marching on while Zahira tried to keep up with his fast pace as he weaved among the locals who were also on their way to the market.

"Could you slow down? Maybe?"

Sighing, Snake dropped his speed until Zahira had finally caught up with him once again. He glared at her feet, willing them to move faster. She walked so slowly and he wanted to get out of the hustle and bustle as quickly as possible.

"You don't need to walk so quickly, you can stop to smell the roses every once and a while, you know," Zahira stated matter-o-factly.

"Don't like crowds much," he responded with a shrug.

"Fair enough, but you're missing how beautiful everything is. I mean tell me one nice thing you've noticed since you've been here," she said, her arms folded over her chest.

Now she had stumped him. He just sort of took in his surroundings, not really caring if something was beautiful or not. The main questions that went through his mind were practical: who were the types of people in the area, was it a good area or a bad one, cultural norms so he could blend in if he needed to, building structures and the like. He found nature beautiful, but man-made things? It was all just as cruddy as the rest.

"The sky is pretty. Um, the mountains are pretty. The desert is pretty," he listed, "There, that's three things not just one."

Zahira shook her head and sighed in frustration, "You're missing the point. Of course those are pretty, it's the little things though, like look at all the different colours of the vegetables piled up at some of the stalls, or the little vendor selling firaq partugs in so many vibrant colours."

"Sorry, all of that is lost on me. I just see food and women's clothing,"

"Ishmael, you're impossible,"

"Whatever that means, Purple Hair," Snake retorted smugly.

He watched in mischievous delight as her face contorted into a grouchy frown. Her red lips pouted and her muddy green eyes narrowed.

"Hey, I like my hair," She responded with an edge of bitterness.

"What's wrong with brown? Brown hair is nice,"

"Well in my opinion, brown hair is boring," Zahira shot back at him, still pouting.

"Sometimes boring is nice," he shrugged, "I just don't understand why'd you want to wreck your hair."

Stopping in her tracks and looking him dead in the eyes she asked him, "Ishmael, do you like Marilyn Monroe?"

The question seemed to have come out of nowhere and he fumbled for a response. He didn't really look at women very often. He'd always just been focused on his career. There was EVA of course, that almost went somewhere but then didn't. He didn't like thinking about her either though. She was just another painful memory from his last mission. He was stupid for eventually falling for her charms. Could they blame him though? They nearly died together.

Sighing, he supposed he did in fact probably like Marilyn Monroe, just basing it off the fact that EVA was blonde and Monroe was as well.

"Sure, I like Marilyn Monroe. She's pretty I guess," He answered with another shrug.

"What colour is her hair?"

"Okay don't insult me, I know I only have one eye but Monroe doesn't have purple hair, it's blonde,"

Once again, he received another eye-roll from Zahira, "Well obviously. But that's where you're wrong."

"You're trying to tell me Marilyn Monroe has purple hair,"

"Oh for the love of – no!" Zahira groaned in exasperation, "My point was her hair is brown."

"No, her hair is blonde," Snake replied gruffly.

"That's because she "wrecked" her hair to get the colour you like so much," Zahira answered.

Mouth hanging slightly open, Snake rubbed his hand on his face, "You've gotta' be kidding me. Well, the world's been jipped."

Proud of her work, Zahira let out a hearty laugh. She had won the round.

"Anyway, Zahira, it crossed my mind this morning, but your English is really good – you're not from here are you?'

"No, no I'm not," she answered, "why do I look like I'm from here?"

"Well, you have Arab features. Big eyes, I'm assuming from your roots dark hair, darker skin," Snake said.

"Hm, yeah, that would be right. My mother was from Kabul and my father is Turkish, but I grew up in America since they immigrated a while ago," She replied, "Also Ishmael, for future reference I'm letting you know it's rude to point out a girl's roots."

Rubbing his lips with his hands, he let out a sheepish, "Sorry."

"But yeah, I was born in Istanbul when my mom and dad moved back from Kabul, and then there was a huge emigration of skilled workers from Turkey to America around that time, so my dad just went with them," Zahira continued.

"Ah, what'd he do?" Snake asked, continuing the conversation.

"Oh, scientist too. He's more into research medicine though. I think he was a little disappointed that I didn't follow him into that field, but I know he's proud of me still for picking botany," She laughed.

"What about you? You're obviously not from here."

"American. Didn't really know my real parents though. I was just a rag-tag kid who eventually wound up in the army and travelled a lot because of it," Snake mentioned, skimming over his mentor The Boss. He didn't want to talk about her. He didn't want to talk about her in a past-tense.

"Sounds kind of rough,"

"Some of it was. Some of it wasn't. Not everything was bad, I had a few close friends. I lost some of them, but every day was an adventure I guess," Snake answered quietly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't want to bring up any bad memories," Zahira apologized, and he could tell by the look on her face she felt bad about asking about his past.

"Don't worry. It kind of comes with the job description of being a soldier,"

They walked together in some awkward silence for a time until they finally got a bite to eat and began walking back to camp. Snake made a mental note that he would have to get Zahira to teach him some Pashto since she seemed to run the street food vendor for his money. Bartering and haggling drove him crazy. He didn't know how people dealt with it. All he wanted was one simple and fair price. None of this arguing with the person to get something at its proper value.

"You know you've done a good job haggling when the vendor is just slightly upset," she proclaimed taking a bite out of her kadu boloni.

"Easy for you to say. I get ripped off like no tomorrow no matter what I do," he said with a grimace before taking a bite out of his own chicken kabob.

"How about this, you train me in wilderness survival mumbo-jumbo, and I'll train you to survive an Afghan market with your wallet intact," She answered with a wide grin.

"Sure, I was just about to ask," He laughed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some explanations. A firaq partug is the traditional dress of Afghan women. Google these because holy they are pretty.
> 
> A kadu boloni is an Afghan street food which is essentially a pancake stuffed with squash. There is also sabzi boloni which is stuffed with shaved potato and onion instead.


End file.
